


Among Friends

by qthelights



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angelcest, Angels, Episode: s06e15 The French Mistake, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-05
Updated: 2011-03-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qthelights/pseuds/qthelights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment of comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Among Friends

Lightning thrashes itself against the black sky; rain drops cling to glass and flash in prisms of brightest white only to disappear back into nothingness in an instant. The room is cold and unlit. Balthazar appears, Castiel a wing-rustle later. Reality is manipulated, light and fire crackling into existence with a snap of fingers. 

Balthazar heads to the wet bar in the corner, as if all they’ve done is return from a night on the town and simply require refreshments before they retire. Castiel just stands incongruously in the middle of the room, trench-coat swaying away into a still drape of fabric.

The way Balthazar favours one side as he walks is telling.

“You’re hurt,” Castiel says, and his voice is a dark rumble mixing with the thunder.

Balthazar smirks as he opens cupboards in search of alcohol, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Oh this pinprick?” he gestures; he plucks lightly at the lapel of his blazer before letting it fall. “What’s a lung here and there between friends?”

Castiel blinks in and out of existence, reappearing at Balthazar’s side.

Balthazar starts at the sudden invasion and a bemused smile twitches at his lips. “Really, Cas, now? I would have thought -”

But Castiel cuts him off, glares and pulls open Balthazar’s coat to reveal the dark red stain seeping through light grey. His lips purse in a frown. “Why haven’t you healed this?”

Balthazar shrugs his uninjured shoulder. “Other things to take care of. Your favourite objects of humanity, for example.”

Castiel ignores the comment. Instead, he pulls Balthazar’s t-shirt out of his pants with deft fingers, lifting it to survey the damage underneath. Balthazar remains silent, hand resting around the crystal neck of a decanter of brandy.

“Virgil?” Castiel asks. He lets the t-shirt fall gently back into place, but his palm homes back in, hovers over the slice of skin and blood.

“Apparently love isn’t the only thing that conquers all,” Balthazar deadpans.

Castiel looks up from the wound, annoyance flaring in his eyes. He drops his hand to his side. “You are unable to heal this.”

“If there’s one thing, Cas, it’s that I can do anything, don’t you know?” 

“You’d do well to remember that I _do_ know you,” Castiel says harshly.

Balthazar raises an eyebrow at the outburst. “I _am_ curious as to why you keep reminding me of that, Cassie.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “I fought along side you, brother, and I mourned your death. I do know you, and you are no more shrouded in armour than I am.”

Something flickers across Balthazar’s face, tightens his mouth and creases his forehead. A reflection, perhaps, of the torn skin at his ribs; a wound. “You say you know me, and yet you judge me, Castiel. You broke the rules first of us all and yet you hold us to a higher power, a higher morality.”

“What I did...,” and Castiel’s fingers twitch at his sides, gaze sliding furtively away, “was in honour of that power. Not in spite of it.”

Balthazar waits for Castiel’s attention to return to him. When it doesn’t, he traces the side of Castiel’s cheek with the back of a finger. “And yet, Cas, dear Cas, we all know that you wound yourself because you wonder if that’s true.”

Castiel is silent, chin jutted and gaze focused resolute and unseeing over Balthazar’s shoulder. Balthazar allows him the moment, pulling the stopper from the decanter and filling the nearest tumbler. The rings on his fingers sound like bells against the glass.

A slide of liquid down Balthazar’s throat later and Castiel has regained himself, fierce and sure once more. His hand moves back to Balthazar’s ribs. “Let me heal this.”

Balthazar considers him, forehead lining before flattening into something gentler. He nods.

Castiel’s hand presses softly against the wound, his palm warm and flat. Energy flares at the contact and Balthazar hisses through his teeth. Castiel concentrates, palm forward, arm straight; as if parting a sea or raising a pillar of salt. The poison draws out. Skin knits back to unblemished, cotton thread weaves together, and blood cells contract to nothing in direct opposition of biology.

“My debt to you is cleared,” Castiel says, voice low and even once the wound is healed. His hand stays pressed over Balthazar’s heart.

“One of these days, Cas,” Balthazar says quietly, amusement and sorrow dancing in his eyes, “you’ll realise that a debt is not the same as a gift.”

Balthazar covers Castiel’s hand against his ribs. Castiel’s fingers twitch underneath, but his hand stays there, cocooned.

“Is that why you gave me the weapons?” Castiel asks, voice quiet in the eavesdropping silence. “As a gift?”

Balthazar’s fingers curl around the edges of Castiel’s hand, a squeeze of familiarity. “For you, Cas, it’s nearly always a gift.” 

Balthazar tugs gently, pulls Castiel’s palm upwards. When his lips touch skin, dead centre between fingers and thumb, they are dry and warm. Castiel’s eyebrows arch, his gaze surprised, but he doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he questions, as Castiel always does. “And is this one too?”

Balthazar smirks, but it’s soft and fond. “Does it feel like _debt_ , Cas?”

Castiel’s brow furrows at the feel of Balthazar’s words, moist and warm against his fingers. “No. But I don’t understand...”

The shrug that rolls across Balthazar’s shoulders appears casual, but isn’t. “Freedom, remember? Utter and complete. No rules, no destiny.”

Castiel is silent in consideration.

“The French word for twelve is douze,” he replies eventually in apparent non-sequitur .

Balthazar laughs, eyes crinkling and amused wrinkles spidering out. “I think deux will do for now, don’t you?”

The smile Castiel returns is wavering and uncertain, but there. For Castiel, it is practically ecstasy. 

Castiel’s hand falls to his side as Balthazar lets go, reaching instead to curl his fingers into Castiel’s hair. “I meant what I said, you know.” He leans forward and presses their lips together, chaste and still. “You and me, Cas. Nothing’s changed.”

“And yet, we have never done _this_ before,” Castiel murmurs as Balthazar pulls back.

“No,” Balthazar agrees, a fraction of an inch away and his breath stuttering against Castiel’s mouth, hand sliding down to cup Castiel’s cheek. “But maybe it would have done us both good.”

Castiel closes his eyes. His hands come up to rest at Balthazar’s sides automatically, yet awkwardly. “I do not think...”

“Cas,” Balthazar warns gently at the hesitance. “Thinking is what got you into this mess in the first place.”

“You called ‘this mess’ freedom before...” 

“Sure,” Balthazar agrees before flicking the tip of his tongue against Castiel’s cupids bow. Castiel’s own tongue follows its path, an echo of curiosity. “Sure. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t complicated.”

Blue eyes meet blue. Solemn and full of history.

“I really am glad to see you, Cas.”

Castiel nods, a slight tilting of his head. “And I you.”

Balthazar waits, lets the silence slide and soothe.

This time, Castiel’s lips touch first.


End file.
